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A Song For Rory
Cerella Sechrist
He had everything he could want…but herEven winning Country Music Artist of the Year can’t help Sawyer Landry shake his guilt over leaving Rory Callahan behind. All the fame, fortune and fans he’s earned haven’t relieved his regret over the way he ditched her. But all that’s about to change. Because Sawyer has finally realized that everything is empty without Rory. And he’s returning to Findlay Roads to win her back. Hopefully.But Sawyer has no idea how hard it’ll be. Rory’s not going to welcome him with open arms. And he’s about to discover a family secret that could ruin everything…
He had everything he could want...but her
Even winning Country Music Artist of the Year can’t help Sawyer Landry shake his guilt over leaving Rory Callahan behind. All the fame, fortune and fans he’s earned haven’t relieved his regret over the way he ditched her. But all that’s about to change. Because Sawyer has finally realized that everything is empty without Rory. And he’s returning to Findlay Roads to win her back. Hopefully.
But Sawyer has no idea how hard it’ll be. Rory’s not going to welcome him with open arms. And he’s about to discover a family secret that could ruin everything...
He’d become famous. He’d fulfilled his dream.
But he’d also left her, after years of shared joys and tears, when it was most convenient for him. And she’d spent the past twenty-three months trying to come to terms with the loss of him—her high school sweetheart, the guy she’d waited for throughout army basic training and deployment, the man she’d traveled all over the United States with as they’d performed their music and chased their dreams.
Sawyer had been her soul mate. She was once closer to him than any other person on earth.
Until fame came calling.
“Rory? Aren’t you going to say anything? Welcome me home?”
Without giving it a second thought, Rory turned and grabbed a half-full glass of ice water.
“Welcome home,” she offered and then tipped the water over his head.
Dear Reader (#ue6dc3975-15ab-5eff-b28f-dabc1393621f),
Think about your best memory. Focus in on that. Try to remember every little detail of that moment, how it touched you, embedded itself in your soul.
Now imagine having that memory taken from you. Not just that one, but every one that came after and each one that came before. You don’t just lose your memories but the emotions and people that went with them. You lose your loved ones, then you lose yourself.
Alzheimer’s leaves you without memories, recognition, understanding, even the most basic forms of knowledge, like tying your shoe or using a phone. Early-onset Alzheimer’s is a rare form of the disease that can develop as young as one’s thirties, effectively stealing not only past memories...but future ones.
My goal when I set out to write A Song for Rory was to find hope within such tragic situations. But that job had already been accomplished for me in the countless personal stories I’ve read about this disease. Patients and caregivers for Alzheimer’s (especially early-onset) have my utmost respect and admiration. You are all fighters, battling to keep what you should never have to lose.
That’s why for every purchase of A Song for Rory, I’m dedicating a portion of sales to Alzheimer’s charities.
In A Song for Rory, I hope you find this truth: that even when memories are taken, love is not.
If you have a personal story on how Alzheimer’s has touched your life, I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me through my website at www.cerellasechrist.com (http://www.cerellasechrist.com) or by mail at PO Box 614, Red Lion, PA 17356.
Cerella Sechrist
A Song for Rory
Cerella Sechrist
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CERELLA SECHRIST lives in York, Pennsylvania, with two precocious pugs, Darcy and Charlotte, named after Jane Austen characters. Inspired by her childhood love of stories, she was ten years old when she decided she wanted to become an author. These days, Cerella divides her time between working in the office of her family’s construction business and as a barista to support her reading habit and coffee addiction. She’s been known to post too many pug photos on both Instagram and Pinterest. You can see for yourself by finding her online at www.cerellasechrist.com (http://www.cerellasechrist.com).
To my brother, Caleb Sechrist. Because you’re awesome. But you already knew that.
I don’t care what I said all those years ago when I found out Mom was having a boy. It turns out having a little brother is one of the best things that ever happened to me. Thanks for making so many of my days brighter.
Acknowledgments
To my sister, Carissa Sechrist, for allowing me to “borrow” many of her original lyrics for A Song for Rory. You’re the true genius behind Rory’s and Sawyer’s talent. And extra-special thanks for writing “Rory’s Song” just for this story. Your payment (i.e., pound of coffee) is in the mail.
To my editor, Laura Barth, for helping shape the Findlay Roads series thus far, and to Karen Reid for doing a wonderful job picking up where Laura left off. I’m blessed to work with not just one but two amazing editors. This story is better because of it.
A special shout-out to all my fellow baristas and customers at the Randolph Park Starbucks in York, Pennsylvania. Especially Bruce K. Davis, who kept me on track every week by asking me if I was meeting my book deadline. That next triple-shot cappuccino is on me, Bruce.
Finally, to every family member, caregiver and Alzheimer’s patient who has had the courage to share their personal struggle with this disease—you have taught me about persistence, pride, love, patience, and the power behind each and every memory. Thank you.
Contents
Cover (#ubbec5977-9e88-5fc8-ab4c-98f52cb41d62)
Back Cover Text (#u6c5b7d3a-2900-52ac-94f6-8052749928a1)
Introduction (#u7275cb40-faf1-5663-8c4b-18651ebd970b)
Dear Reader (#udb4821a4-4556-54ec-8207-c56334ccb8ec)
Title Page (#u17370f09-407c-5e80-8c0d-abbde13aa7b7)
About the Author (#ua389fab4-4361-58f6-abb1-b484f8712454)
Dedication (#uc45c25c8-ee32-53a4-af6f-b5175bb0fa0c)
CHAPTER ONE (#udb9bc184-6036-5a4b-80ac-4a60b13cdbb8)
CHAPTER TWO (#u9feae1b7-d5b4-5b57-af26-172690cc1397)
CHAPTER THREE (#u4fcb5fee-3668-5153-b2f7-e4269c6099f8)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u22455371-5f09-54cd-87d6-43174ea549ed)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u2a4e18ca-5d4b-5475-8f34-43bc87903ec2)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue6dc3975-15ab-5eff-b28f-dabc1393621f)
“AND THE WINNER of this year’s Artist of the Year is...”
Sawyer Landry tensed in his seat as the reigning country music diva, Daisy Elliot, slowly untied the red satin ribbon from the envelope. He knew the cameras would be watching him, so he tried to appear relaxed and prayed the stiffness in his shoulders wasn’t obvious. The auditorium sat hushed in anticipation of Daisy revealing American Heartland Radio’s most prestigious award.
If he managed to win, he could just hear his manager’s reaction. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, sugar! I knew you had it in you! Perle Jackson peppered all her conversations with such colorful dialogue. It was part of a carefully cultivated persona that she put on to disarm others. Sawyer had quickly learned not to trust her redneck shtick. Perle was as ruthless as a Mafia crime boss when the occasion called for it, which made sense if you believed the rumors that she’d actually grown up in Brooklyn, and her Southern accent was as fake as her fingernails. It made Sawyer glad she was working for him and not against him.
Daisy fumbled with the envelope, her bracelet catching on the satin ribbon. She laughed breathlessly, the sound a whiffle of air against the mic.
Sawyer realized he was balling his hands into fists, so he slowly eased them open. There was a collective shifting of the audience as they grew impatient with Daisy’s delay. At long last, she tugged the gold-edged ivory card from the envelope.
“There we go,” she announced, her voice carrying an air of relief. “As I was saying, the winner of this year’s Artist of the Year is...” She drew a breath. “Sawyer Landry!”
The tension broke as the audience swept to their feet in a standing ovation. Sawyer was a beat behind as the announcement hit him. He’d done it. Artist of the Year.
“Come on up here, darlin’,” Daisy exhorted.
He received several congratulatory thumps on the back as he navigated his way up the red-carpeted runway to the stage. From his peripheral vision, he noticed a montage of his concert performances and various awards ceremonies displayed on the massive auditorium screens.
The applause rose several octaves as he tossed a wave toward the audience. He felt himself warm to the reaction. It was heady enough to hear a crowd of two thousand fans screaming his name, but having such a strong reaction from his peers, even his idols, in the industry cheering him—that was a rush at an entirely new level. He nearly tripped over his cowboy boots—a gift from Nashville’s premier designer—as he moved toward the podium.
The audience was still on its feet, hooting and hollering, as he accepted the bronze statue from Daisy.
“Congratulations, Sawyer,” she murmured for his ears alone as she leaned in to press her cheek to his.
He hefted the weight of the award in his hand. It was an elongated sculpture with a crystal sunburst radiating from the top. He glanced down to read the description: “An artist of the highest caliber, displaying showmanship and talent, Artist of the Year,” followed by the date and year.
Sawyer swallowed hard as he read the words, making an effort to keep his emotions in check. He’d done it. After years of living out of a van, playing dive bars and community events, never knowing where his next paycheck would come from, he’d finally reached the top. He raised his head and looked out over the auditorium. The stage lights were too bright for him to make out individual faces, but the applause still rippled on.
He finally let out a breath and grinned. The sight of his smile set the crowd off once again, and the clapping intensified a few more notches. He raised a hand to quiet them, but it was still several long seconds before the room was silent.
“I don’t even know where to begin, there’s so many people I need to thank.” He drew a breath. “My band, my manager, Perle, and all the talented folks at Americana Records.” He quickly ticked through his mental list of industry partners, executives and collaborators.
“My family, especially my parents, for buying me my first guitar. I told you I’d pay you back for it one day, and now I guess I can.” He was rewarded with a rumble of laughter from the audience.
“I’m especially grateful to my fans. Every single one of you who bought an album or downloaded a single or attended a show—you are what has made this possible.” He laid a hand across his heart. “And I thank you for that.”
He stopped then, his gaze fixed on the sunburst at the top of his award. He experienced a tug in his chest, as he so often did when he was onstage, staring out at a crowd or accepting an award. In all those times, there was still one individual he had yet to thank.
She was the one person who had made all the difference in his life and his journey to this stage. But he hesitated to name her. After all, it was unlikely she harbored any fond memories of him after the way he’d ditched her.
But wasn’t this the moment? The occasion when he was meant to pay homage to those who had shaped and defined him, the ones who had believed when others had withdrawn their support? If that was the case, there was only one person whose belief in him had been unfailing, no matter the hard times. It was his own pride—the recognition that he was the selfish one who had given up on her and not the other way around—that had kept him from voicing her name.
Well, there was no time like the present.
“There’s one more person I need to thank. And she may be the most important person of all.”
A hush swept over the auditorium. With the stage lights blinding him, he could have almost believed he was alone in the room. He drew a breath and closed his eyes, struggling to find the words.
“Rory, if you’re watching—” he opened his eyes, trying not to wince at the bright glare “—I’m sorry.”
Saying those two words eased a bit of the ache in his chest. He hadn’t realized what a relief it would be to speak them aloud. It bolstered him to continue.
“You deserved so much more than what you got. And truth be told, you hold more talent in your pinkie finger than I have in my entire body.”
If the audience still remained in the auditorium, they had fallen utterly silent—he could imagine he was speaking directly to Rory. Only the faint electrical hum of monitors and amplifiers could be heard.
“If anyone deserves an award for best artist, it’s you. Because you’re the best artist I’ve ever known or collaborated with. Your faith in me helped me to believe in myself. I dedicate this award to you.”
Daisy cleared her throat, and a soft guitar riff from the speakers signaled it was time for him to wrap it up. He also heard a faint reverberation from the crowd, a wave of whispers traveling through the room.
“So, thank you...for everything.”
He tipped the award in acknowledgment and then moved toward Daisy, who was waiting to direct him off the stage. There would be a crowd of reporters wanting to interview him. Applause followed him into the wings, and he heard the ceremony’s host segue the proceedings into the next performance.
Sawyer paused at the hallway that led to the press area and looked down at the award he held in his hands. Though he felt relieved at having finally recognized Rory after all this time, a weight of grief still hung over him. Most days, he was too busy to acknowledge it, but in moments like this, the truth hit him full force.
No matter how many albums he sold, concerts he played, or awards he won, he wondered if he would ever shake the regret of letting her go.
* * *
RORY CALLAHAN TRIED not to fidget as the scones were passed.
